


It Starts in My Soul

by aprilbird



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Blanket Hogging, Drabble, Fluff, Lazy Mornings, M/M, Shakespeare Quotations, TW: Sleet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2019-09-21
Packaged: 2020-10-25 01:21:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20715740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aprilbird/pseuds/aprilbird
Summary: It's a cold November morning, and Baz thinks about Simon and Shakespeare.





	It Starts in My Soul

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Bubbly by Colbie Caillat, which captures the gist pretty well.

The air outside was cold, a biting chill dancing through the shitty windows and swirling into the room with every gust of wind. Said gusts caused an unceasing whistle against the side of the building, accompanied by a soft chorus of frosted tree branches scratching against glass and the scattered caws of ravens on nearby rooftops. 

It was mid-November through and through, down to the pale watery sunlight seeping through the airy curtains. The light was diffused enough that Baz didn’t feel any sting, though it was bright enough to wash their little room in dim color despite the early hour. 

Another gust blew against the window, shaking the branches and hurling a scattering of sleet against the panes. The frigid air found all the places where the thick duvet had come untucked, all the gaps between wool socks and silk pajama-pant cuffs. Shivering, Baz pushed his face back into the pillow and tried to find that snug, warm place his mind had been before the wind and the ravens and a sense of absence pulled him up. 

He groped for the duvet corner and made to pull it tighter across his shoulders, but it wouldn’t move. He tried again to no avail, realizing as his mind slowly analyzed his surroundings that he lacked the amount of blanket necessary to adequately cover any of himself, not just his shoulders- his legs stuck out as well, and no amount of tugging was rectifying the situation. And given the circumstances- the wind blew again- the situation really was untenable. How had he slept like this? It was bloody freezing, and it wasn’t as if he had his own body heat- 

Oh. Right.

He twisted, peering over his shoulder at his sleeping boyfriend. Simon was facing him, wrapped in three-fourths of the duvet, bronze curls tousled over his pillow, bare arm reaching unconsciously towards Baz across the expanse of their bed. 

The bed was, Baz had to admit, of a fairly ridiculous size, but while they had been shopping Simon had absentmindedly mentioned having never known a bed bigger than the shitty excuses at the care home and the only-slightly-better twin xl’s at Watford. Baz had temporarily lost his grip on reality and bought the largest, most comfortable mattress in stock. The look on Simon’s face had been worth it, and Baz couldn’t deny that it had its benefits, but it also led to mornings like this one, where Simon’s ridiculous body heat had clearly driven him to the other end in the middle of the night.

Simon Snow. Baz’s boyfriend, live-in space-heater, and blanket hog. How someone could need so much duvet despite running at an internal temperature of approximately a thousand fucking degrees was beyond him.

It was endearing, but Baz really was freezing, so he ceased his pulling at the corner and instead slid over. 

Simon made a happy sleep noise and pulled him closer. The difference in temperature was immediate, and Baz let contentment spread through his chest as he tangled their ankles together. For a moment, he entertained the notion of sinking back into dreams. Another gust shook the windowpane- it sounded as if it was sleeting in earnest now. This time, the bite of the cold didn’t reach him. 

Baz had always been a light sleeper; for better or worse, he was awake now. Gazing at Simon’s face, he decided it was unquestionably for the better. He was no stranger to watching Simon Snow sleep, but his years of yearnful gazing felt like the polar opposite of this, of smiling fondly at those stupid moles from inches away, wrapped in Simon’s arms and watching the way the thin sunlight played on his eyelashes. 

This was ease, serenity, even, dare he think it, bliss. Those years- he shuddered to recall.

The pain of hiding his feelings, hiding himself, watching and wanting but fearing that he would one day be forced to destroy that which he watched and wanted, or let himself be destroyed by it- by him- though what would it matter, in the end, when the pain of hiding and the pain of the wanting was destroying him from the inside out-

Remembering ached. Simon had hated him, then, or at least had thought he did. Baz, during the light of day, when he was not faced with the bare vulnerability of the curve of the stupid cupid’s bow on Simon’s sleeping mouth, had hated him right back. He used to get butterflies thinking about how best to phrase the insults, how best to make Simon’s ears turn scarlet, and would mentally replay particularly witty comebacks over and over like other teens rehearsed flirty pick-up lines. He had been Simon’s archnemesis, his villain, his adversary in all things. Fate had set them on opposite sides of the chessboard, and they had done their best for a time to play their parts.

One would think such a past would lend itself to an odd romantic dynamic, Baz mused. Familiar lines drifted into his head, and he smiled to himself.

“How comes this gentle concord in the world,” he said softly. The blustery morning just past the walls covered most of it, but in the little bubble of the bed his words rang clearly.

Simon shifted slightly, but didn’t move.

“That hatred is so far from jealousy,” Baz continued, smoothing stray curls back from his boyfriend’s forehead and cupping his face. “To sleep by hate and fear no enmity?”

He closed his eyes at the sudden rush of emotion. His hand on Simon’s cheek grounded him to reality, to this perfect quiet moment, and so it was a shock when it moved, as Simon spoke-

“My lord,” he said, his voice creaky with sleep but carrying the trace of his wry smile. “I shall reply amazedly, half-sleep, half waking.”

Baz’s eyes shot open. 

Simon looked back at him, raising a hand to grasp Baz’s at his cheekbone. “But as yet, I swear,” he said, painfully earnest, “I cannot truly say how I came here.”

Baz could only blink, squeezing his hand.

“Shakespeare,” Simon mumbled, closing his eyes again. “Midsumm’r nighhrth drmph. I’cn read, too, y’know.”

And he was asleep again. Incredible.

Baz knew he ought to get up. He ought to put on his slippers and get some coffee going- milk and sugar for Simon, O-negative for him- and maybe some eggs. He ought to remember the things that had to be taken care of, and the places that needed going and the people that needed seeing. 

But then again, it was a Sunday morning, and none of the tasks on his ever-present mental to-do list had a timestamp. 

And then again, it was so bitterly cold outside of the duvet, and so very warm underneath it.

And again, most importantly, Simon had curled closer, tucking his head under Baz’s chin, face in his neck, soft snores barely audible. 

Baz could smell his own floral shampoo in Simon’s hair. 

The wind rattled the window vigorously, as if making a point.

He could make coffee in a little bit, he reasoned. Just not right now. They had worked so hard, been through so much to get to these little moments. It seemed like a blur at times, and Baz remembered Simon’s bashful sincerity-  _ “I cannot truly say how I came here.” _ Certainly, the convoluted tangle of their paths made about as much sense as the faerie plots of the original play. 

But all that mattered was that those paths had led to each other. To cold Sunday mornings in bed. To this gentle concord.

When Baz slipped back to sleep, there was a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> This randomly leaped from my head to a google doc bc I'm currently taking a Shakespeare class and these lines jumped out at me from A Midsummer Night's Dream with this scene fully formed in color with sound effects. Idk man. Hope u all enjoyed.
> 
> Lines used are 4.1.143-148 and bear absolutely no relevance to snowbaz when taken in the context of the play :)


End file.
